


The Phoenix' Refrain

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-20
Updated: 2006-08-20
Packaged: 2018-10-26 13:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10787619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Hermione and Ron talk on the night before the final battle.





	The Phoenix' Refrain

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: This fic is for Heronwing, my mentor and beta who died last year. I hadn’t written anything since her death until this month. She loved Harry Potter, as well as the fantasy genre in general. The phoenix held personal meaning for her; she related to the phoenix and wrote a series of poems based on its persona. I hope you were reborn, my friend, and gained your wings. Footnotes for quotes used are at the end of the story.  


* * *

Returning to Hogwarts was bittersweet for Hermione. Over a year and a half had passed since she had walked these halls, hand in hand with Ron as they headed into the terrible morning of Dumbledore's funeral. Since Harry had decided not to return for his seventh year and they had chosen to follow. 

The time had gone by slowly, and she couldn't help thinking about what they should have been doing had things been different. Instead of doing research in the gloom of Grimmauld Place, they should have been studying for N.E.W.T.s. Instead of hunting Horcruxes and living in tents (and wherever else they could lay their heads for a bit) and sleeping in shifts, they should have been celebrating their graduation. Instead of trying to keep one step ahead of Voldemort and his Death Eaters and attempting to survive for just one more night, they should have been looking forward to their futures, attending university or apprenticing. 

They hadn't been living; it had been merely existence, holding out in the dark void of war, where things like happiness and hope were pipe dreams. Now, it was coming to an end. They had found and destroyed all of the Horcruxes but one, believing Harry to be the last. The final battle loomed before them. One way or another, this chapter in their lives would be closed. 

Harry, Ron and Hermione, along with the other Order members, had decided that Hogwarts was where they would make their stand. It seemed only fitting. They had all sat in the Great Hall for lunch, but it wasn't the same. The clamor of students was absent, the meal wasn't as appealing and even the enchanted ceiling was naught but sullen clouds. Despite all the room, everyone had assembled at the Gryffindor table.

"Doesn't seem right," Ron muttered, pushing away his plate.

"What's that, mate?" Harry asked. His own plate was barely touched, his attention on his own thoughts.

"Being here. It's like we don't fit anymore."

Hermione didn't speak, but she understood how Ron felt completely. In her mind, she could see all the memorable times they had spent in this room, at this table, most of them filled with laughter. She remembered which groups gathered here and there and how the hall looked during the holidays. She could recall the exact scents of her favorite foods and how the excitement of the Yule Ball sounded. She could see Ron and Harry playing wizard's chess while she studied. 

Each memory was laid over the other, like a palimpsest of images, and their meeting today rested on the very top. The last layer, what with the tension in the room, the empty seats and the anxious participants, seemed to tarnish those below it. It didn't belong in her memories of this place.

She knew they weren't alone in their sentiments. Looking down the table, she could see others inspecting the room, lost in their own reminiscences. Feeling overcome, she rose from her seat and excused herself. As she made her way out, she patted Remus on the shoulder as she passed and spared Molly a brief hug.

She considered where she should go. She dismissed the idea of visiting the library or the Gryffindor Common Room, as she knew they would feel empty. Tonight was their last night in the castle; the morning would bring battle and a conclusion to everything she had known. She didn't want her possible last memories of Hogwarts to be ones filled with fear and uncertainty.

The corridors themselves were hollow; the grey stone walls had never been so cold to her. The portraits were quiet, awake but looking at her with sad eyes. Even the ghosts kept their own counsel, sweeping through in silent gusts, their former vivacity stilled. By her own perception, the castle was mocking her, bringing her fears out into the open. She had to get out.

Hermione ran to the huge oak front doors and pushed them open. The cold wintry air hit her like a fist, taking her breath away. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing for her cloak but not wanting to take the time to retrieve it, and stepped out.

Snow had fallen during the night and the grounds were blanketed in brilliant white. No footsteps or muddy carriage ruts existed to mar the view. It looked pure and untouched, and despite the chilly temperatures it made her feel welcomed. She had always loved winter at the school, how the season made everything look picturesque.

If she turned her head to the right she could see the Quidditch pitch off in the distance, the banners swaying in the breeze. Beyond the pitch lay Hogsmeade; she wondered idly how the people there were preparing for the conflict ahead. On her left was the lake, its surface made glassy by ice and reflecting the sky above. She could not see the Forbidden Forest from her vantage point but she could hear the songs of birds that nested there as they flew over the castle. She felt calmer; at least out here her memories did not taunt her.

She turned her gaze out to the field of white before her and admired how the sun glinted off the frosty ground. Hermione allowed her mind to wander, as it was apt to do, but soon found herself confronted by her anxieties again. The frozen ground became littered with bodies and colored in crimson. The sun was shut away and the sky stained with smoke. Screams echoed in her ears.

She shook her head, jerking herself out of her morbid imaginings, and wrapped her arms about herself tighter. She wanted to pull herself together, wanted, no, _needed_ to be brave and clear-headed, for herself and her friends. But the clenching in her gut and the dark, mindless fear in her heart kept rising to the surface, threatening to overwhelm her. It was all she could do to keep from tearing out her hair and scream.

"'Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow...'*" Hermione murmured to herself. She then felt arms wrap around her middle and jumped, until she looked up into concerned blue eyes.

"All right there, ‘Mione?" Ron inquired. 

"Not really, but better now. Where's Harry?" she asked.

"Walking about. I think he needed to take things in." Ron loosed his arms from around her long enough to wrap them both in his cloak, then embraced her again.

"I couldn't stay inside anymore. Everything feels so desolate, I couldn't stand it."

Ron tightened his clasp about her. "I think everyone's having a rough go of it. Mum keeps hugging us and crying when she thinks we're not looking. Fred and George haven't offered her any cheek at all. It's dead depressing."

"I can't even imagine how awful she feels. Her whole family is at risk," commented Hermione with a sigh. "How is everyone else holding up?"

"Moody's drinking and ranting, while the rest of the Aurors are together in a corner talking strategy. Nothing new there. Charlie's keeping watch over Hagrid, or rather keeping him sober. Remus, I dunno, he's just got this look on his face."

"What look?"

"He looks like, erm, well, like he's off to do something he doesn't like but he's going to do it anyway," Ron replied with a shrug. "Everyone's twitchy, like me and Harry before a Quidditch match."

"Was Harry all right, before he went on his walk? I didn't talk to him much."

"I reckon he's fine. He's geared up. Told me he's 'ready to get this over with'. Not that I blame him," muttered Ron at the last, mostly to himself.

Hermione turned in his arms, snuggling closer and burying her face in his chest. "Ron, I'm so scared."

"I know. So am I. But it'll be all right," he reassured her.

"But what if it isn't? I shouldn't be so defeatist but I can't help it! Every time I close my eyes I see the most terrible things. I worry I won't be strong enough, that I'll fail you and Harry," she lamented, lifting her tear-stained face to him. "I'm afraid we'll die and that I'll never see you again."

"That's not going to happen, ‘Mione," Ron asserted, lifting his hands to cup her face. "We've trained for this. There's no way Voldemort is going to win, even if I have to choke the snake-faced bastard myself. And as for you failing, you've always been strong and been there for Harry and me."

"But how can you be so sure?"

"I just know it, in here," Ron answered, thumping his chest with a fist. "I've never been keen on knowing all the facts, like you. I don't care about the odds. And I'm not like Harry; he's had his whole life laid out for him. He's always known what he has to do, even though it hasn't been of his choosing. Me, well, I just know that I choose to fight, and that I won't let anything happen to you or Harry. Together, nothing has ever stopped us and it won't now."

He paused to take a breath, his exhalations visible in the cold, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the lake. Then he turned to her, his gaze resolute.

"I have faith in you and Harry. I believe in us."

"Oh, Ron, I do, too, but I can't help being frightened."

"I'm afraid, too. I told you that. But that's not a bad thing. Bill told me that only fools don't feel fear. Says he gets nervous every time he enters a tomb, because he might not come out again, but it's his job so he goes. And Dad, he recited me something he read in a Muggle magazine. ‘Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.'**," he quoted, and then laughed. "It's probably the only useful Muggle thing he's come up with, besides the car. And it's true. I think you and Harry are more important to me than not being completely petrified."

"I suppose with loyalty like that I shouldn't be so terrified. I'm being rather selfish, aren't I?" Hermione questioned.

"No, just human. Even know-it-alls are allowed to get nervy before marching into battle," he teased. He gathered her close to him once more, laying his head atop hers.

They stood in silence, holding onto each other for long moments before Ron spoke again. His voice was softer and a bit unsteady.

"Look, Hermione, I know I'm usually pants at this emotional shite, but I wanted you to know that..."

Hermione raised her head up and gifted him with a small smile. She laid a finger across his lips to halt his speaking.

"I know, Ron. You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," she murmured.

Ron grasped the hand that was hovering over his mouth and held it to his chest. "I know I don't have to, but I want to. I do love you." He then leaned down and took her mouth in a heartrending kiss, a kiss meant to convey all the feelings for her he held inside and the optimism that he still clung to.

"I love you, too," whispered Hermione as the kiss ended. She snuggled back into his enfolding arms, settling her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Minutes went by. Ron scanned the grounds, tucking the sights and sounds into his recollection like so many keepsakes. A spot of color in the air caught his eye, and he squinted to try to determine what it was. As it approached, he identified it and nudged Hermione. "It's Fawkes."

Hermione turned in the circle of his arms to see. The phoenix was flying over the grounds, the crimson and gold of his plumage bright against the backdrop of pale earth and silvery trees. He soared and danced above them and away. Then he spread his wings wide and burst into song. 

"He hasn't done that since Dumbledore died," Ron said quietly, as if afraid to interrupt Fawkes' melody.

Hermione didn't respond, her eyes enchanted by the flight of the magical bird. As his refrain continued, she felt a peace settle over her. She felt stronger, as though the notes filling the air were rekindling the hope in her breast. She realized what Ron had described, a surety that things would turn out all right.

"Ron, I've never relied on omens before, but I do believe Fawkes is trying to tell us something," she declared.

"Yeah," he replied. His heart was full of the phoenix call and his eyes were on Hermione, watching a rare smile cross her face and light into her eyes. 

"There's a poem that says ‘hope is the thing with feathers'***; appropriate, don't you think?" she said, turning to beam up at him.

"Yes, it is," Ron responded, then set his sights on the crooning phoenix that was ascending in blazing glory above them. "Carry on, Fawkes. Carry on."

 

*quote is by Ambrose Redmoon, aka James Neil Hollingworth, and was taken

from an article entitled "No Peaceful Warriors!" published in the Fall, 1991 issue of "Gnosis: A Journal of the Western Inner Traditions"-- a defunct magazine about New Age spirituality. Redmoon was a hippie, a beatnik, a rock band manager and paraplegic who was confined to a wheelchair for the last three decades of his life (died 1996). Was a writer, but found no publishers and was not known beyond a relatively small circle of  
mystics and fanciers of neo-paganism.  


**quote is from Macbeth, Act V. SC. V Lines 17-30, by Shakespeare and can be found here: http://www-tech.mit.edu/Shakespeare/macbeth/macbeth.5.5.html

*** quote is from poem XXXII by Emily Dickinson and can be found in its entirety here: http://www.bartleby.com/113/1032.html

 


End file.
